


Drown

by iseestars



Series: Transgress [1]
Category: Arrow (TV 2012)
Genre: Knives, M/M, Physical Torture, Rape, Torture, psycological torture, sword - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-20
Packaged: 2018-02-26 09:00:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2646026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iseestars/pseuds/iseestars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver needs to suffer as Slade did.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drown

**Author's Note:**

> Pretty much AU. Oliver didn't beat Slade. Slade never had his eye stabbed out.

_What doesn’t kill you_  
 _Makes you wish you were dead._  
 _Got a hole in my soul growing deeper and deeper,_  
 _And I can’t take one more moment of this silence._  
 _The loneliness is haunting me_  
 _And the weight of the world’s getting harder to hold up._  
\--Bring Me The Horizon // “Drown”

 

His arms were strung above his head. All that he could feel was pain. It overtook his trained senses that he worked so hard for, and his breath came in shallow gasps. His toes barely skimmed the cement of the floor. Every last miniscule muscle ached through his bones to his core, and he only had two thoughts.

_I have given up. I have failed this city._

He let out a sob that wracked his entire body. He could only hope that his captor would be merciful. He hoped that his death would be swift, if not honorable. He just wanted to die, to end all of this. He’d been nothing but a fool and now he was finally paying for it.

This city didn’t need a vigilante. It needed to be left alone. He should have left it to fall apart. It was none of his business; it was his father’s. That bastard just dumped it all on this impressionable young man as though he knew what would come of it.

Maybe someone was looking for him. All he could do was hope not. Diggle? Felicity? He knew that they were safe, but he knew better than to think that they’d given up on him. He prayed that his captor had left no leads to where he was. His headset had been removed along with his quiver and bow. That was good. There were trackers in all three, so his captor must have been fairly thorough.

The thought of his two companions bickering like usual left him overcome with remorse. He should fight, just for them. Make them happy. That was all he was ever trying to do, but he’d failed so many and so frequently. Felicity, Diggle, his own mother, Thea, Tommy, Slade, Shado, Yao Fei, and so many innocent civilians; he’d been the reason they were all hurt and broken. It was all his fault.

He was so tired. Tired of trying, tired of failing, tired of destroying. It was his turn to rest. It was his turn to find peace. He could only hope that the afterworld would be forgiving.

He wasn’t sure how long he’d been hanging there, but he knew that he just wanted this all to be over already.

“What are you waiting for?” he croaked out. His voice was hoarse from lack of use. He waited for a response, but nothing came. “If you’re going to kill me, get it over with.” Again, silence. “WHAT THE FUCK!” He thrashed his body, the chains clanking together, making as much noise as possible. “Be a man! Show yourself! Finish what you started!”

He thrashed again in the deafening silence, the only noise the dying sound of the chains. He let out another sob, giving up once again. Maybe he would die alone, his only company the destructive thoughts that have broken him down for seven long years.

“Please, just kill me,” he whispered to the silence.

Suddenly, there were footsteps. They echoed through the large concrete hall with seemingly no set starting location. They stopped, however, somewhere behind him. The chains holding his arms above his head wouldn’t turn, but he craned his neck around far enough to catch a fleeting glance of an orange and grey mask and a full mercenary ready from head to toe with guns, grenades, swords, and knives.

Deathstroke.

“Please,” he begged softly, “please just make it quick.”

The assassin stopped in front of him. “So quick to die? That doesn’t seem like you.” The voice seemed so familiar but sounded ever so slightly new and he was so exhausted that he didn’t even try to put a face to the voice. What did it matter? If he was killed, he’d be dead. It would be as simple as that. He could finally have peace. But Deathstroke wasn’t that kind. “I’m not here to kill you.”

Finally, the vigilante completely broke down. Tears fell down his cheeks and he let out another heart-wrenching sob, gasping for air around the lump that had formed in his throat. “What do you want from me?”

“You’ve made me suffer,” Deathstroke explained. “Now it’s your turn.” A gloved hand reached up and pulled the green hood down onto the shoulders of the restrained man.

As the same hand slid under the mask over his eyes, the Arrow couldn’t help but beg. “Please, just kill me. I’m so tired. Everything hurts. I have suffered.”

As the mask fell to the floor, the seemingly unemotional assassin took a hesitant step back. “Not like I have.” Did his voice quaver?

“WHO ARE YOU!?” The vigilante was still sobbing, thrashing around on his chains. “WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT!?”

A leather-clad hand swiftly slapped the screaming Arrow, snapping his head to the side and silencing him momentarily. The vigilante kept his head bowed until he saw the mercenary’s mask hit the ground.

He slowly raised his head to all-too familiar black eyes. “Oliver,” the Austrailian said.

The billionaire sobbed loudly again, a new stream of tears falling over his cheeks. He should have known from the beginning. The fighting skill, the verbal hints, the accent. Through his tears, he said one word: “Slade.”

As if nothing was out of the ordinary, Slade started pacing in front of Oliver. “You look good clean shaven,” he commented. He sounded like he was trying to catch up with an old friend. Like his enemy, his former student, his former lover, wasn’t strung up in front of him, beaten and ready to die. To Slade, this was just another meeting. Another way to reconnect. “How’ve you been, kid?” He waited patiently for a response, and when his only answer was hushed weeping, he continued. None of this bothered him. It was all so normal. “I had a feeling that you were this masked vigilante with a bow, but I couldn’t be too sure. You’ve surprised me before.”

Slade stopped pacing directly in front of the archer and looked him over. He pulled a small sword from the harness on his back, and he held it out towards Oliver. “Do you remember training with these?” He said it with a smile, as though it was a fond memory for him.

Oliver only choked out another sob.

Without warning, the sword sliced across the green fabric on the archer’s chest, and dark blood started to pool out of the long wound and down onto the fabric. Oliver screamed in agony, more tears falling onto his cheeks.

“Jesus, stop crying!” Slade looked frustrated, as if he didn’t want to hurt Oliver, but he couldn’t stand seeing him so broken. “Act like the man you were trained to be.”

Taking a deep breath, Oliver spoke in a whisper. “Slade, I can’t—” He choked on his words, but he wasn’t sure why. Was it because this was his former mentor, or former bedmate? Something was keeping him from saying, I can’t do this anymore. Finally, he rasped out, “Not strong enough.”

Slade nodded. “That always seemed to be your problem, kid.” He slammed the handle of the sword into the archer’s temple, sending blood down the tanned skin and into the blonde stubble on his cheek. Oliver cried out and the chains rattled as he lost his footing. His arms strained against the weight of his body hanging only from his wrists. Sluggishly, he forced himself back onto his toes to take the stress off of his wrists. “Physically impressive – very impressive, I must say – but no mental discipline.”

Oliver’s red-rimmed blue eyes looked up and into the dark eyes of the assassin. Slade looked down and away, fiddling with the blade of the sword. “Slade, please,” he begged. His head was pounding in time with the rest of his aching body.

Slade’s eyes snapped up, fury in his eyes, from cleaning off the blade. “Please, what, Oliver!? What the hell do you want? Do you want me to kill you?” He put the blade perpendicular with the Arrow’s neck, pushing just enough so that he could feel the blade against his neck. Slade pushed his body close, daring the younger man to make a move.

Oliver actually felt relieved when he felt the cold steel against his skin. “Yes. God, yes, please, it’s all I want.” He stayed as still as possible, Slade’s hot breath caressing his chin. He almost smiled, relief washing over him.

The seconds of silence that followed were suffocating. The Arrow waited patiently for the Australian to make his choice. The right choice. The choice that would put the vigilante out of his misery and allow him to finally be free.

“I don’t think so,” Slade said passively, pulling the blade away. “Too easy,” he chided, a shit-eating grin making itself at home on his face. “Don’t you want to go out in a blaze of glory? Something spectacular?” The assassin was taunting him. He was taking away his right to die as he slid the sword back into its sheath.

“SLADE! KILL ME!” He kicked out, his legs just barely missing the older man. “You motherfucker, you get over here and you slit my throat. You owe me that!”

Slade charged towards him, grabbing him by the chin and squeezing. “I owe you? You really are twisted, aren’t you, kid? I think it’s the other way around.”

Oliver grit his teeth and let out a guttural growl, flailing his body as much as he could. The archer watched the anger deepen in the dark eyes. The Australian let go of Oliver’s chin and struck him roughly three times on the cheek.

“You can’t die yet,” the assassin taunted him, holding the younger man’s face between his hands. Their noses were just inches from touching. Slade could smell the tears on Oliver’s breath. The dark brown eyes softened, and he closed the distance between them.

At first, Oliver resisted, tried to pull away, but Slade trapped him. Eventually, the archer gave in and intertwined his mouth with the Australian’s. When Oliver couldn’t breathe anymore, Slade finally pulled away.

“This isn’t what I want,” Oliver whispered against the other man’s lips. He could still taste Slade on his tongue, and he could feel himself becoming desperate.

“Haven’t you realized yet that this isn’t about you?” Slade stroked his face kindly before he walked away, leaving the younger man wanting more. “I assume everyone thinks that you’ve changed since your time on the island.” His voice echoed in the empty room, and Oliver wondered where he went, and if he was going to come back. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d leave him here to die. It wouldn’t be what he would choose, but he would take it at this point.

A loud sound of metal banging together rang through the air, and then Oliver fell onto the floor in a heap. He rolled onto his back, gasping for breath at the sudden change of position that made his muscles scream in agony.

Footsteps started again after a couple of minutes, and Oliver looked wearily in the direction they approached from. “I know better,” Slade continued from his previous statement. “I know you’re still the same spoiled, unappreciative, weak, insignificant little brat that stumbled into the plane.” The assassin had removed his gloves, vest, and shirt, leaving him in only his belt, gray pants, and black boots. There was a knife sticking out of his left boot.

He swaggered towards Oliver, swaying his hips in his nonchalant and charming way that only he could pull off. When he caught himself staring, the archer looked away. “I saved people,” Oliver murmured towards the floor.

“Some,” the Aussie agreed. “But who was it for? The civilians of Starling City? Or were you just trying to make dear old dead dad proud?” He looked down at the man in green with what looked like sympathy. He squatted, stroking the short blonde hair and soft facial hair of his former lover.

Oliver saw his chance, and he took it. He snatched the small knife from Slade’s boot and swung tight, aiming for the older man’s ribs. The trained mercenary caught his wrist easily and bent it backwards painfully, anger flaring in his eyes again. The archer shrieked out in pain, dropping the knife and using his free hand to pry the strong hand off of his wrist before it snapped.

“Get up,” Slade spat at him. He stood quickly, kicking out with one boot straight into the ribs of the Arrow. When Oliver didn’t move, he used his arm to pull the younger man up by his bicep effortlessly. He could only cry out in pain from his now seething ribs and wounded body. “Be a big boy now,” Slade growled huskily, “walk.” He threw the young man forward and watched him fall, only to catch himself on his hands and knees. He put one arm around his ribs to cradle them. “I said walk,” Slade hissed. He kicked Oliver again none too gently.

The archer took a deep breath and stood on unsteady legs, stumbling in the direction Slade was herding him. He stumbled into a doorway and held onto the frame to catch his breath. He didn’t have long until he felt a strong hand force him into the room, causing him to fall to the floor with a harsh groan.

“On the bed,” the gruff voice commanded. He knew there was no room for smart-ass remarks or wasting time, but he couldn’t stop himself from resting on his forearm, nursing his ribs, and catching his breath.

Oliver expected the short-tempered man to growl and pick him up by the hood of his suit. He expected to be thrown onto the bed that was previously mentioned. He didn’t expect the bed to be so soft that he sunk into the comforter and almost forgot what was happening. Everything disappeared around him; the pain, the worry – it was all gone. He closed his eyes and turned his head, breathing in the beautiful scent of ocean breezes and fresh linens. Even in his own home, in his own bed, he was never this comfortable or at ease. He allowed every thought, every feeling to slip away into a dull ache, and he gave in to the exhaustion taking over his body.

Maybe he could die here. He’d die happy.

Closing his eyes for even a minute or two made him unbelievably groggy, and he tried to open his eyes when he felt warm hands unzipping his top. Even speaking took too much energy, so all he could do was make unintelligible moans, sighs, and whimpers.

“Do you remember the island?” A voice swam into his brain, and it took him time to process the words.

He felt drunk from fatigue. When was the last time he slept? When was the last time he even lay down? “Yes…” He barely managed one simple word. The hands touching him ran up his chest and down his arms, pushing down the sleeves of the green jacket. The hands were so warm and loving that they were lulling him into another doze. “So good…” he sighed.

“Do you remember us?” Oliver could feel his boots being pulled off one by one.

He nodded sleepily. He felt the bed shift around him, and then a strong hand crept onto his thigh. It ever so slowly skimmed up until it hovered like air over the bulge between his legs. “Please,” he pleaded. His hips bucked upwards, looking for any kind of friction or contact. “I missed you.” The words came out slurred together and mumbled.

Slade laughed softly. “Of course you did.” He unzipped the tight leather pants and maneuvered them off of the vigilante’s toned legs. He slid off of the bed and easily moved the younger man’s body so that he was resting on the pillows instead of hanging off of the side of the bed. He pushed his boots off and then stripped off his pants before crawling back onto the bed, resting beside the tired man in front of him. “Do you remember what I told you?”

A small smirk lingered on the groggy lips and Oliver muttered, “You told me a lot of things.” That must have been the right answer, because Slade laughed again and kissed him. Not rough or forceful like last time, but lazy and tender. Oliver would never admit it, but he mewled like a cat in heat as he was kissed.

When Slade pulled away, the Arrow licked his lips, relishing the remaining taste of the assassin on his lips. He raised his head, looking for more, but found only air waiting for him. He forced his heavy eyelids to open just a fragment, and he couldn’t stop his hand from rising to run over the tones shoulders, down the pectorals, and across the washboard abs. His pale skin contrasted strikingly against the deep tanned skin.

“Do you want something?” Slade was teasing him. Making him beg, as usual. A stocky hand caught his thin wandering one, holding it against a tight abdomen. “Tell me, Oliver,” he pressed.

The drowsy smile that was gracing the full lips of the former billionaire faded. His sparkling blue eyes, still pink from the tears he shed, became serious. “Fuck me. Like you used to.”

The mercenary shifted so that he was laying on his back, and lightly tapped Oliver’s leg, making him stir out of his light doze. “Suck me,” he insisted, pushing the vigilante’s shoulders down when he finally rose off of the bed.

The Arrow slid down his body, leaving a trail of kisses in his wake. He reached Slade’s leaking member and took his time around it; he kissed it, kissed the muscular thighs surrounding it, kissed the tight abdomen above it. When he heard the older man grunt from his lack of patience and lack of appreciation for foreplay, he wasted no time wrapping his wet mouth around Slade’s dick. It tasted better than he remembered – all musk and precum.

“You’ve always been so good,” Slade encouraged as Oliver took his whole cock in his mouth. “Such a good boy.” He threw his head back with a moan. One hand was on the back of the archer’s head, trying to grab the shaved hair like he used to. He bucked once and then pushed Oliver off of him. “Not yet,” he panted.

And suddenly, it changed. “Turn over for me.” On his knees, Slade moved behind the vigilante and tried to coerce his ass into the air.

Oliver fought back, swatting the mercenary’s hands away and trying for all he was worth to stay facing Slade. “Stop,” Oliver ordered, trying to keep up with his former mentor. Slade was older, yes, but he was also stronger; especially considering that Oliver had been weak for so long. “Stop! I don’t like it that way!”

Slade finally figured out a hold on Oliver’s forearms, and flipped him over roughly before he could fight back. He leaned down close to his ear, pinning him down by laying over his back, “This isn’t about you, remember?” The open wound on the archer’s chest burned against the soft fabric of the comforter.

Slade leaned back and pinned Oliver with a hand on the back of his neck and lined his length up with the archer’s hole. In one swift thrust, he pushed past the tight walls and settled in, allowing Oliver to get used to him again. His eyes rolled in his head and he let out a curse. “I forgot how tight you were,” he muttered through a groan.

Oliver’s face was being crushed into the bed, and he hated this. Having his ass in the air was the only position he couldn’t stand. He could feel tears burning the corners of his eyes. He was humiliated. Slade acted as if he still had feelings for Oliver, and the archer had walked right into his trap. He was so stupid. Of all the people to believe and trust, he chose Deadshot of all people.

“Slade,” he croaked out. A lump formed in the center of his throat, but he was still trying to sound as aggressive as possible. When his only response was a deep grunt and a faster rhythm, he tried again. “Slade…” His voice cracked in the middle of the word. He sounded as pathetic as ever. “Please…” He wanted this to end.

As if remembering something he forgot, Slade reached around Oliver’s hips with his free hand and stared pumping the soft dick. “Don’t I turn you on, kid?” He was taunting him again, and gave up, gripping the sculpted hips in a tough grasp.

The assassin’s hips became erratic, and Oliver clenched his eyes shut. He felt so dirty. “God, Ollie, I love how you take my cum.” At the use of his nickname, the Arrow broke down again.

The last time Slade called him Ollie, the rest of the sentence included the phrase I love you. Olive shook his head of the memory and fell onto his side when Slade pulled out and let him go.

The older man ran a hand through his hair, panting and sweating as he recovered. He stood on shaking legs, euphoria evident in his dopey smile as he pulled his pants and boots back on. He picked up the green leather pants and managed to force Oliver to slide into them. The Arrow was too aware of the blood he was laying in, and how his chest burned when he shifted his weight.

“Get up,” the mercenary demanded. When the younger man merely stared at him, scared, he pulled him up by the wrist and threw him out the door. When the bedroom door closed behind them and the soft bed became just a memory, Oliver nearly burst into tears. Slade pulled him along with him back to the pile of chains resting on the floor where Oliver’s body once was. “Sit,” the assassin commanded. The archer stood his ground. Slade turned and looked at him as if he grew a second head. “Are you deaf or stupid?” He waited again. The Arrow didn’t move. Then he lost it. “I TOLD YOU TO SIT.” He forced Oliver down with one hand to the inside of his collarbone.

Slade once again bound his wrists, and then disappeared into the vastness of the room. There was silence, and then the heavy metal sound of the chain being pulled back up. Oliver was pulled to his toes and he winced at the ache of his wrists and shoulders. His entire body throbbed from top to bottom, and every pulsation took his breath away.

When he saw Slade approaching him again, his lip quivered. “Why are you doing this?” The mercenary stopped directly in front of him, looking over his bruised and bloody body, a hint of something in his dark eyes. Maybe Oliver could abuse this weakness. “Please, Slade, I remember the island and I know you do, too. We were so happy.” The older man stepped up and ever so gently caressed the battered skin of the Arrow. Oliver nuzzled his face into the comfort of the warm hand. “What happened to us? How did we end up here?” The assassin closed his eyes in what seemed like remorse, and the sly archer was not about to stop any time soon. “I remember what you told me. Do you remember what I told you?”

Slade nodded in remembrance. He remembered it like it was just yesterday and not five long years beforehand. He leaned toward the man in green, and left his lips to hover just out of reach of the younger man’s lips. He could taste how sweet Oliver always tasted. He felt when the younger’s breath hitched out of want.

“I remember,” Slade whispered softly. Oliver leaned forward quickly, attempting to steal a kiss, but he was, as always, too slow for his former mentor. The older man backed just out of his reach, allowing the chains holding him to still before he spoke again. “But you took away something even you could never replace.”

Oliver’s eyes widened and he realized. He’d been tricked again. “Slade, please,” he begged. Tears welled up behind his eyes. “I’m so sorry. Please don’t leave me here.” He struggled against he chains holding him, but he was so weak from his recent abuse. “Slade, please, I lo—”

“Don’t you dare,” Slade hissed, and backhanded Oliver across the mouth. He watched as tears ran down the soft cheeks again. He hesitated. He was the only assassin he’d ever even heard of that was so swayed by his emotions. He locked his jaw and turned away. He was unable to look at what he’d done to his former lover any longer. He knew, however, that he had to make him suffer. An eye for an eye. “Don’t ever say those words to me again.” His voice suddenly sounded exhausted.

Slade started off into the voice of the room once again.

Oliver struggled against his bonds in one last effort to break free. “SLADE! DON’T YOU LEAVE ME HERE! DON’T YOU DARE DO THIS TO ME!” He sobbed when the mercenary didn’t stop. He’d lost. He’d officially been defeated and weakened. “Slade please,” he begged quietly through sobs that wracked his whole body. “Don’t leave me alone.”

The Australian man stopped on the border of the orbit of shadow that bordered the room and concealed any exits or entrances. He looked over his shoulder, and once again, Oliver begged for sympathy. “Please come back. I’ll do anything for you. I want to be with you. Please don’t leave me here.”

Slade hesitated. He craned his neck to meet his brown eyes with the desperate blue one last time. “You have to suffer,” was all that he said. But there was no conviction. It was like he was doing it because he had to, not because he wanted to. He turned away and continued into the darkness. Oliver watched his last chance walk away.

“SLADE, COME BACK HERE. DON’T YOU FUCKING LEAVE ME LIKE THIS. COME BACK HERE. DON’T DO THIS TO ME AGAIN, YOU SON OF A BITCH.” He struggled against the chains. He roared in agony.

Outside of the holding room, Slade could still hear Oliver struggling against his chains through the closed door. The clanking crawled into the assassin’s skin and made it crawl. He heard the wails of anguish and defeat, which he knew all too well.

“I’m sorry, kid,” he whispered to himself. Unable to stand it any longer, Slade forced himself to walk away.

**Author's Note:**

> I am over all happy with the result of this. I just let my mind run and take the plot wherever. I kind of rushed the ending, but I'm still content with this.


End file.
